


Beats in Time

by zoolovelies



Category: U2
Genre: Blow Jobs, Emotions, Established Relationship, Introspection, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 23:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoolovelies/pseuds/zoolovelies
Summary: An introspective look into the December 2017 Billboard magazine photoshoot. Bono and Edge rediscover their rhythm. Bono’s POV.





	Beats in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the Billboard interview and B's brush with humility (as Edge likes to say). B's voice just constantly seems to be with me, and I felt like he even overtook my computer at some points during the writing of this.
> 
> This is my first official post here, and I am pretty excited about it! I have been an avid reader of U2 fic for years, just taking it all in from the sidelines. Through countless collaborative ideas with disco_theque and inspiration from pjsideproject, fouroux, likeamadonna, spacemonkey, marsdaydream, and occula, I was finally able to create and complete something that (I hope) is worthy enough to post here.
> 
> This fic was born out of one of the many conversations I have with the loveliest disco_theque, as we analyze photos of the band for hours on end, creating endless fic prompts. I thank her so much for her constant support and cheering me on whenever I lose hope or confidence in basically anything I write or just life in general <3
> 
> (Oh! And I know Edge didn't have his sneakers on for that shoot. It was just a tidbit that I thought B would've appreciated).
> 
> \-----------------------------------

“Okay, guys, I think that’s all I need. Thanks so much for taking the time. I got some really great shots.” The photographer, what was his name? Matt? Mark? Marc. With a C.  
Marc says, as he shakes our hands, one by one. 

Adam and Larry waste no time heading to the large industrial-looking common area, complete with comfortable couches and some outlandish food spread (I assume). Actually, even through the doorway, I’m certain I spot a tray of what looked like Pierre Herme macarons. 

“Maybe they have the Citron ones you like, Reg.” I turn back, expecting to see you hot on my heels, as we hadn’t eaten anything other than a quick breakfast this morning before our interview. 6 hours ago.

But you were seated on the wooden crate where I had been for most of the photoshoot, looking at me thoughtfully. “Can we just…”

“Sure.” Our routine. Not all the time, but when we needed to take a few moments after a long day of the press stuff. I go over to stand in front of you and you reach for my hand. We stay in silence like this for about a minute.

“You okay?” I ask, even though I know what this is about.

“Oh,” you say, but it had more of a melody to it, than just words. You lean back a little, “I’m just in awe.”

“Oh yeah?” I was being cheeky, because you let me. “Of what?”

“I think you mean, of ‘who’, B.”

“Whom, Edge.” You were trying to be cute, but I was adamant at making you work for it.

You sigh, but smile still. “Right. Anyway. I’m just really proud of how you’ve been handling this entire press tour. I mean, they didn’t even bring it up today, so I feel like that’s a small victory for us.”

Yes, there it is. If I could just deflect... “I think I just ran my mouth off to Jason about Trump so much, he probably didn’t want to hear anymore.” I say, laughing a little.

“No, you had some great points there! Especially about trying to understand what the person next to you is saying.”

“What about the person in front of you?”

You grip my hand a little firmer and smile warmly. I should have been melting at the gesture, at your sincerity, but I stiffened. As much as I appreciated your constant doting over the past 11 months, I was determined to divert any callback to my “brush” before I reached my breaking point. 

“Reg…” I start, as I drop your hand to nervously scratch the back of my neck. I didn’t quite know what to say. How do you tell the person you love that they’re starting to drive you mad?

I let out a long breath I didn’t know I had been holding in. “Can we go back to the way things used to be? Before...before everything.”

“What do you mean, B? What’s wrong?” That look of genuine concern on your face again. Just get me a bumper sticker that says “I’d rather be melting.” (Except —I still wasn’t).

“That,” I take a step back. “That is what’s wrong. Edge.” I was raising my voice and pointing at you now. Pointing! What the hell was wrong with me?

You’re looking at me with your head tilted in confusion.

“What do I have to do to make things go back to the way they were? Everyday you just make excuses for me. What more can I do? I basically lie down in your goddamn lap like you were going to feed me grapes on international television and you just pet me like a puppy. It’s been a year, Edge!”

“Bono, I don’t understand. You’re mad because I’m...nice to you?”

“I’m tired of you walking on eggshells around me! Then you’ve got me doing it, too. I don’t want to be angry at you, believe me. I’m just starting to feel like you don’t remember who I was before it happened.” I’m audibly, and presumably visibly, out of breath, and have started to sweat.

“Bono…” you start, and I’m not really sure where you’re going. Your furrowed brows make me think that you don’t either.

“I just miss-”

“Take off your glasses,” you say abruptly, out of nowhere. What?

“What?”

You stand to face me at eye-level. Maybe an inch or two below eye-level. You have your sneakers on.

“I said. Take your glasses. Off.” You voice is stern. Well, stern for you. But the look in your eyes is one I haven’t seen in many months. 

The air has changed. I do as I’m told and breathe out a shaky breath of anticipation. You’re right in my face now.

“Now, look me in the eye and tell me what you mean.” 

My vocal chords feel like they’re being strangled, but in a good way. A very good way. You raise an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

I glance at your eyes, but they’re too powerful in this moment and I’m not sure I can handle it. I take a breath and look down at our feet. “I miss you,” I manage.

“Look at me. What do you miss?” 

How do you do this? Go from being the sweet man who has offered himself up as my personal protectant, to this...okay, _still_ sweet man, but one who can produce heat through his eyes and voice that infiltrates my very soul? As well as...other places. Oh, yes. The other places.

“Daddy,” I say in a raging, deep whisper. I reach down to brush my hand over the front of your dark-wash jeans. “I miss this.”

You break the intense eye contact to allow your head to lean back a little at my touch and bestow the quietest of moans.

“It’s been too long, Reg,” I say, as I slowly smooth my hand over your pants again, bringing you to life.

Your head snaps back to reality and quickly looks around. “B, we’re...” Your voice is strained. In that same best way.

“Alone out here. They’re all inside.” I take a step closer to you so my mouth is by your ear. “What do you want?”

“But what if someone...”

“-everyone’s inside.” I return to the deep whisper to hopefully make you forget we’re in a semi-public area. “What do you want, daddy?”

“I want you inside.”

I pull back to look at you, breaking character and trying not to get frustrated again. “Edge, I’m telling you, we’re fine out here.”

All of a sudden, your arm is around my waist and you’re pulling me towards you so our hips crush together. “I want you. Inside.” 

As if I wasn’t gasping already from the swift contact of groin-on-groin, I finally comprehend your words. I look at you with wide eyes, while yours have gone dark already. “Are you sure? You don’t want to...”

“I’m sure, Bono.”

I don’t know if this is actually what you want or a ploy of some sort to let me regain control. Of life. Of us. You’re always the one to run things and I’m always the one to ruin them. That’s how it’s always been. So, naturally, we fall into the routine that suits us best. I can’t even remember the last time... (okay, that may be a lie). Maybe you’ve been wanting this for awhile and haven’t been able to get a word in because I’m always the one begging for you. Maybe that’s why you’re looking at me right now with borderline-tested patience (you’re always so patient, how do you put up with me?) as you silently wait for my thoughts to reach my eyes. 

They finally do.

“You’re back,” you say to me, with loving adoration, as you so often do. Now you’re breaking character and I love you for it. I can’t tear myself away from your glittering eyes and warm smile and I’m about to get lost again. But your expression changes and your grip on me tightens and I remember just what you’re asking of me. What you want.

I realize that if I straighten my head, I’m eye-level with your forehead. It’s only a mere inch and a half, but it feels like I’m towering over you. I laugh a tiny, giddy laugh, “I’m so glad you wore your sneakers.” A small detail that wouldn’t have impeded on anything, but will make things easier. Almost like you’d planned this. Did you plan this, Reg?

You don’t respond and I realize that I didn’t say that out loud. You let me go, walk over to the wall, reach your arms up and brace your hands against it. You spread your legs apart, lower your stance and plant your feet to the ground like you are one with the cement.

I gape at the sight and wonder if I’m going to finish before we even get started. “Feeling frisky, The Edge?”

“Am I not about to get frisked?” you say, directing your face back in my direction. I can’t see more than your chin, but I hear the smile. What did I do to even begin to deserve you?

I try to play it cool, but end up scampering over to you like a child. I can still scamper like the best of ‘em, Reg.

I reach over your shoulder, draping myself over your body, mirroring our stage antics (they were never just antics). My hand lands just below your neck and I hold there for a moment, feeling so many feelings. The heat between your back and my front is radiant. 

“But I am the one who was arrested.” I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t my intention to bring the mood back here, especially when I was the one trying to run the furthest away from it. You take one of your hands away from the wall to place it over the one occupied on your chest, as you straighten your body to mold with mine.

“B…” is all you say. I rest my chin on your left shoulder and you tilt your head so your cheek is against my hair, letting my temple nuzzle in against your neck. If I could stay in one place for the rest of my life, I am certain I’d make this my permanent postal code. You would tell me that this is not the first time I’ve said that. I’m not sure how long we stay like this, feeling each other’s chests contracting. It occurs to me (because I’m me), that you can feel my heartbeat, traveling through your back, meeting yours halfway, as we both cling to your chest. Beats in time, you and me. A content sigh. Was that you or me? Either way, I believe you are thinking the same.

I lift my head slightly from its perch, moving yours up with it. My other senses begin to return, as I feel the warmth of your body beneath, and over top of, my hand. These moments of intimacy just don’t come frequently enough, and that was a fact even before the events of last year. Because, when do we ever have time? We need to make time, Reg. 

The overwhelming need to twist your chest hair between my fingers is so powerful, so I start to slide my hand (our hands, as it were) down a little. Fully expecting to hit a roadblock of buttons and undershirt, I find that my hand (and yours) is free to roam where it pleases. I wonder for a second when you had time to undo your shirt, but chalk it up to being one of the many unexplainable Edge phenomena. 

Your head goes back again, like it did when I first touched you, and I feel your beard quickly brush against my cheek. Your mouth is open slightly and your eyes are closed, and I decide, if I could choose, this is the last sight I’d like my eyes to see. I continue the journey of our hands on your chest, but your exposed neck is too much for me to handle and I lose focus. My tongue darts out before my lips and I’m kissing your neck so fervently that I’m almost gasping for air. Your little whimpers have become one longer, drawn out, moan as I make my way up to the area behind your ear. You turn your head to face mine and our lips brush together once. In that moment, I think we both realize that this angle is proving to be a hindrance on our current activity. 

Our bodies move in unison to face each other and your arms wrap around my neck as if we are beginning our first dance as husband and wife. My hands are latched onto your waist and I think we may begin to sway for a bit. But you pull me in closer, so your shoulders are almost all the way up to mine, and before I know it, you’re hugging me tightly. You retreat slightly, with your hands on the back of my neck, and kiss my cheek so tenderly that I think I may actually melt now.

“Oh, Edge,” is all I can say, before our lips meet again. We’re clinging to each other in such a way that could only imply we both thought we were close to losing each other. And subsequently, ourselves. Our tongues battle for dominance, until we both surrender to fully exploring each other’s mouths. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I’m gasping for air again, so you turn your focus to other parts of me. The corner of my lips, my chin, my jaw (you spend a few minutes there alone). You’ve latched onto my neck now and return the kiss I gave you shortly before. “God, this neck. I’ve missed this neck,” you say, before getting back to it. I moan at this, if I wasn’t already moaning before. 

With you preoccupied with your current task, I decide I, too, need to be reacquainted with other parts of you. With one hand grasping your hip, I move the other down to repeat my gesture from earlier. Your hips move instinctively, and you whimper the loveliest noise, as I lightly palm you through your jeans. Your reaction to the slightest touch makes me realize this is enough for me. If this whole thing started as a way to make me (and us, together) feel the way I used to, this is what I need. And I think it’s what you need, too. I move to your waistband, quickly unfastening the button and pulling down the zipper. Sliding into your boxer briefs, I run my hand over your hard length and get another jolt from you. I guide you to the same wall you braced yourself on earlier, only now with your back up against it.

“Bono, what are you...this isn’t what we…” you stammer on. I smile, having forgotten what it’s like to make you tremble, especially when taking things off-course (which used to be my specialty).

“Edge, I’m back.” 

What I meant to say was _we’re back,_ but even after a humbling near-death experience, the megalomania never truly leaves, does it?

I don’t give you time to protest any further, as I pull on your jeans and briefs, and slide down along with them. I look up and there are your glittery eyes staring down at me in wonderment. I place a kiss on your cock and look back up at you, but your eyes are already closing in anticipation. My tongue glides over the entirety of your length, before coming back to tease the tip. Whatever whimpers and quiet moans you were trying to hold in have now been forgotten; because the groan you let out at that moment has thrown all of your caution to the wind. That sound is one of my favorite sounds. If we could put it on a record, I would. Everyone should get to hear that sound. All the blood in my body rushes downward at that sound. I need to hear it again. I take you in my mouth, then. Fully. 

For as much as I’ve missed hearing your beautiful noises, I may have missed the feeling of your cock in my mouth even more. I can’t believe I haven’t done this in over 12 months. How did I survive, Reg? How? I make my own muffled sound this time, the vibrations around you causing a chain reaction. My mouth has been slow and steady in my motions on you, but a melody pops into my head and I find myself moving to the unknown beat. I continue to go deeper for more and inch out to the rhythm as I begin to hum the bass line around you. Before I know it, I feel your hands on my head, guiding me along to this forgotten tune. The sensation of your fingers running through my hair makes my whole body tingle, from my scalp to my toes. My hips seem to have gained a mind of their own, jutting forward, and I move my hands from the sides of your thighs to grab onto your ass. It’s partially a selfish move, to give myself more leverage (plus, my hands have missed wandering these parts), but you seem to be enjoying the shift nevertheless. I straighten my back, as my mouth picks up its rhythmic pace on you, and use my hands just as a masseuse might. 

“B, I’m almost there,” you tell me, in a low whisper.

 _I’m ready,_ I want to say. But it just comes out as more humming. I glance up at you, your eyes squeezed shut, with that look of pained concentration, and it’s almost enough to set myself over. You spill into my mouth, and I can’t help but feel like it’s a symbolic action of you releasing all that you’ve been holding onto this year. All of me. I freely swallow, happy to relieve you of this, and ready to accept it as just a part of my story; something that happened, that I didn’t allow to overtake me. I feel overcome with emotion in that moment, and hug your unsteady legs. You put your hands on my shoulders and come down on your knees to meet me. We both look at each other, reuniting with our breathing, and our bodies, and hold each other.

“Thank you, Edge,” I say, when we’ve straightened ourselves up (and when I can finally speak again). “Let’s join the others, shall we? See if they left you any macarons.” We walk in with our arms around each other and I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so tremendously alive, loved, and lucky.


End file.
